Page 43 of If All Else Sails
Maybe I haven’t softenedthatmuch.
Very quickly, I realize that the map was, in fact, necessary. Rivah Maht appears to have been organized by someone who had a distinct vision. An artistic vision. One that does not align with practicality or any other grocery store in existence.
It reminds me of how Toni arranges her bookcase: first by author, then by color and height. It’s very aesthetically pleasing but not so easy to understand if you’re trying to find a specific title. Unless you’re Toni.
Normally, I’m good with patterns, but if there’s an order to this madness, I can’t pinpoint it. Some aisles seemed to be arranged bycolor. A few times I thought I found a pattern of reverse alphabetization. I was wrong.
“Why would someone do this?” I ask. “I mean, it makes no sense.”
“Not to you,” Wyatt says, tossing a bag of frozen chicken thighs into the cart.
“And it does to you?” I add a box of mint ice cream sandwiches from the freezer across the aisle. Because ice cream and chicken thighs makes sense. Wyatt wrinkles his nose.
He moves a little ahead of me, leading the way through this madness. He doesn’t answer, not that I expected one from Mr. Monosyllabic. I grab a box of cookies. Is it because I think it will bother Wyatt? Maybe.
A few minutes later, while examining the label on a loaf of bread, Wyatt surprises me by saying, “I grew up shopping here with my uncle.”
I process this. “And he left you the cottage?” I ask, hoping I’m not prodding too fresh a wound.
“And the boat. We used to sail.”
Wyatt is saying so little, but I’m snatching up each breadcrumb of information like a squirrel hoarding for winter. The fact that Wyatt is voicing any of this speaks to the significance of the relationship with his uncle.
“Do you still sail?”
He uses his crutch to point at the boot on his foot. “Not at the moment.”
I don’t know the first thing about sailing, but I imagine mobility is kind of important. I’d like to ask more questions, but the subject of sailing dropped a dark cloud over Wyatt.
“Is all this really necessary?” Wyatt asks, frowning down at the cart.
“I’m not sure we need ten whole pounds of ground beef, but I don’t know how much a guy like you can put away.”
“I meant Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.” He nods toward the collection of desserts I’ve accumulated.
“Do you have a problem with sugar?”
Before he can expound on his clearly incorrect judgment of sweets, Wyatt’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and heaves a sigh.
“I need to take this. Here.”
He readjusts on his crutches to pull out his wallet, but I wave him off. “I’ll send Jacob the bill.”
With a quick nod, he heads through the automatic doors in the front, sending a wave of heat blasting inside. As I start placing items on the belt, I wonder whose calls Wyatt Jacobs actually takes.
When I’m done checking out, I find Wyatt in the parking lot, pacing in his boot and crutches, a clunky gait. One that seems punctuated with some kind of tense emotion. It’s less like he’s walking with crutches and more like he’s trying to aerate the sidewalk, stabbing it forcefully with each step.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I reach him, readjusting the grocery bags in my arms.
He stops, dragging a hand through his hair and frowning. “My mother is coming.”
Chapter11
High Society Steamroller
Josie
I do not even consider telling Wyattwhyhis mother is coming, which I suspect is my brother’s doing. I texted Jacob right before we left for the store, telling him this job might be short-lived since my patient refused to go to the doctor.
